And Miles to Go Before I Sleep
by InnocentCulprit61
Summary: continuing Strange Bedfellows.  Vin's laid up and Ezra and Josiah have impossible promises to keep.
1. Chapter 1

The sunlight is too bright, beaming into his eyes from a gap between buildings.

It's completely the wrong time of day for the sun to be doing that, Ezra thinks grumpily.

On opening the jailhouse door he'd been anticipating a gentle dusk, not this damn onslaught. The fading daylight is preternaturally dazzling to his mind, just as the wagon wheels rolling past are impossibly loud and the smell of horse manure at the foot of the steps is overpoweringly strong.

His eyes squint against all of it and he hangs on to the upright beam at the top of the steps for a spell.

"Evenin'," says someone, walking by with a nod.

Ezra jerks to attention, surprised.

_It does indeed look as if it will be a pleasant one._

That's what he'd normally say but he manages no more than the suspicion of a hat-tip. He has no idea who's just spoken and for a second experiences a curious blank about the correct response to the greeting. By the time it's come to him the moment has passed.

The dullness of his brain annoys him. It must be a result of the hectic assault on his senses, Ezra thinks. Or perhaps too much concentration. He feels himself relax as he recalls what he's achieved this afternoon.

Fully armed and ready for trouble, he'd ended up spending the allotted hours in the jailhouse building a palatial house of cards while no less than four prisoners remained utterly silent, goggling at him from behind their bars. They didn't complain once, didn't ask for anything. Just nursed their hangovers and watched, entranced. While not exactly what Mr. Larabee might approve, Ezra doesn't think he can be reproached for the way he's carried out his duty.

The pasteboard house remained intact until JD came striding in, the draught from the door sweeping through and collapsing beams, floors and gables in a single breath. The sighs of disappointment from within the cells were audible.

JD hadn't seen the architecture, only the rubble strewn on the desk and floor.

"Buck's ordered ya dinner," he'd said in a tone that brooked no arguments.

That young Mr. Dunne occasionally adopts Larabee's threat-under-pleasantry manner these days is no longer something Ezra will dignify with a response. He yawns and stretches. It's good to be out in the air again. The last of the wagons has rolled past and now he can hear JD clomping about inside the jail, being busy. Across the street the silhouette of Josiah is visible on the roof of the hardware. There's a faint coil of smoke curling into nothing above his head. Ezra licks his lips, imagining tobacco, and then wonders why Vin isn't up there.

He frowns. Something is going on with Vin and now just isn't the time.

They've been on high alert for days, expecting some sign that Burton Palmer's assembled a crowd and is heading towards town to bring down as many of the peacekeepers as he can. Far as they know, the family's been back in their own territory somewhere in Wyoming for a month or more, ever since Burton's nephews had to hightail it out of Purgatorio. There's some kind of home there, so it seems, and even one or two women of the clan. The Palmers never stay put for long, though, and it only needs one vague report that one of them's on the move to make Chris demand more vigilance than usual. The alert has strained relations with much of town, and despite a rousing speech from Josiah to his congregation on the topic of solidarity, it hasn't stopped sections of the local populace from brawling.

Since he's not feeling in tip-top condition this evening, Ezra decides he should perhaps make himself scarce. He's very glad he's done something that might be considered useful and hopes it will preclude him from being obliged to take a night watch. A drink would be very acceptable, however. He focuses on the saloon. Damn but he wishes it wasn't weaving about, feels it unfair it should be doing that to him before he's even crossed the threshold.

"Any trouble?" inquires a familiar voice. Buck is loping down the boardwalk towards him, his easy limbs suggesting they've been suitably relaxed this afternoon. And possibly well taken care of.

"None at all."

"Say again?"

Ezra is sure his words were clear. "None," he repeats. "None. At all."

Buck nods distractedly, gives him a little frown and then indicates the saloon. "Buy me a drink?"

"You're most amusing - I understood dinner was served."

"Always time for a beer." Buck is firm.

"Short on funds?"

"Pay day just never comes around fast enough, Ezra. You know how it is."

Ezra knows how it is. He fingers his vest pocket, heaves his shoulders as he looks once again at the wide open space between the step and the doors of the saloon.

"Oh very well."

They skirt the pile of manure, set off slantwise across the wagon tracks. Ezra is relieved that everything proceeds without incident. Just as they reach the steps of the opposite boardwalk, Buck touches his back lightly as if to guide him up.

"You'll be fine once you get some whisky inside you, hoss."

Ezra decides not to even wonder why Buck is speaking so gently, why on earth the man thinks he isn't already fine.

Down the street above the Livery, things are not looking good.

There is a left knee which is not working properly. No doubt about it.

Shifting the footstool on which he's sitting, Nathan takes hold of the limb very lightly once more, apologizing again for his cool hands. With great care he bends the joint back and forth as if it's a delicate hinge. There's a slight ticking sound.

The healer feels frustrated and not a little guilty - it seems his original diagnosis and treatment was just not up to muster.

"Think maybe they broke it," he says to his patient at last, setting the whole leg gently back on the ground. "That time in Ridge City. Cracked the bone maybe. And it didn't knit up quite right. Trouble is..."

"Trouble is?" Vin is slumped back in the easy chair looking far from resigned.

"Well, ain't gonna heal up perfect after all this time."

"Can't walk on it, Nathan."

"No."

"No? That all you got for me? No?"

"Well, figure it'll calm down like it's done before. But you hafta stay off it for now or you'll be needin' a wooden leg."

Vin hauls himself to upright in the chair. He looks kind of mean. Nathan guesses he's had just about enough of sitting up here with no pants on being told he might end up a goddamn cripple. Someone rattles the door forcefully.

"Be right there," Nathan says over his shoulder. He picks up Vin's pants and hands them over, not surprised when they're snatched from his grasp. It's not the first time one of his fellows has reacted to his ministrations by being pissy. Soon as Vin has managed to get one pant leg over the swollen joint, Nathan kicks the footstool back under the chair and moves to unlock the door.

Chris slides in before it's fully wide. "We got a problem," he announces to the room in general. Then he takes in Vin and the large bottle of liniment and it seems like the wind's taken out of his sails for the moment. He looks to Nathan, draws his brows down. "We got a problem?"

"Damn knee's the size of a watermelon," Vin supplies in disgust.

Nathan agrees that this is somewhat the case and then takes up the refrain. "Problem?"

Chris takes a breath. "Wire just came in from the sheriff in Banner. Ludo Palmer's hangin' around." The name is said with dislike. "Wants us to go pick him up."

"Let the damn law in Banner pick him up!"

Vin's tone is sharp, and Nathan raises his eyebrows at Chris. Tanner must be beyond sore.

"Judge overrules."

"We gonna go all over that shit again?" Vin mutters. "That weasely lawyer and another crooked trial? Them Palmers laughin' their fuckin' backsides off at us?"

"Judge overrules, Vin."

"He gets damn well paid ta overrule. Don't see how it helps."

"Travis says he'll try 'em here this time, for robbery and murder. Reckon he thinks we can keep the peace while he's doin' it."

Nathan feels the creeping dissatisfaction he knows they all have. "For robbery and murder. That's good. But not for Ezra?"

"Nope. Thinks we have a better chance ta nail 'em on the other charges."

"Ow, damnit!" hisses Vin who has already been standing for too long. He resists Nathan's attempt to get him to sit again, shimmying out of reach with a growl. "Jus' get me down ta the saloon and I'll be damn well good as gold."

Chris looks displeased. "How long?" he asks Nathan, nodding at Tanner.

Nathan narrows his eyes at Vin, considers this. "Should be easier in a day or two, if he stays off it. Ain't fit to ride though."

"And Ezra?"

"Hell, he ain't given me no trouble for weeks."

Vin cocks a look at him. "Ain't likely to, is he?"

There's a minute pause and Jackson fingers his collar.

Dr. Freiber's precious gift sits in a locked cupboard. Nobody else but Nathan knows that for sure, but he doesn't suppose the rest of them imagine for one moment the pretty box of tricks has been returned to Chicago. Nathan will only get it out when he's absolutely certain none of the others are anywhere near. The contents are becoming familiar to him now and he polishes the pristine tools sometimes, just to enjoy the feel. He knows much more about them than he did when they first arrived and sometimes dreams vividly of a glinting scalpel readied in his hand. The accompanying book is kept under his bed and the only person who's seen even a fraction of the torrent of questions he needs answered is the town's telegrapher.

"Told you before. We've spoken."

"How come he's still avoidin' you then?" Vin smirks a little, then he tries to move towards the door and fails. He puts both hands round the offending knee, mutters a quiet "damn" and then just reaches out for the support Chris offers.

"Ezra's bein' a baby," Nathan declares, moving round to Vin's other side. "I've never given him a single reason not to trust my word. He just..." His hands flap.

"Just?"

"Ain't thinkin' straight."

The sound of Chris scratching the underside of his chin with three fingers is pointed.

"You gonna help me down these stairs or what?" Vin asks shortly, pinching Chris's forearm.

Nathan sweeps up his hat from a table and comes to duck under one shoulder. He figures some medicinal whisky might be in order right now by the sound of Tanner's voice. It's strung tight with irritation and discomfort and Larabee's arrival seems to have made it worse. Vin will not take being left behind very gracefully, not when he's missing the chance to nail one of the Palmers. It was one hell of a scrimmage back in Ridge City, by all accounts, and it's unlikely the boot to his kneecap was accidental.

And hell, even if it wasn't Ludo Palmer out there, Vin would be kind of twisted up anyhow, Nathan thinks. Because dragging a gimpy leg through the undergrowth is not something any kind of tracker wants.

Unless his quarry's plumb deaf of course.

Down in the saloon, Chris and Nathan deposit Vin without much finesse into a chair opposite Buck, who doesn't emerge from his beer mug, just appraises the situation as he's drinking. He has the air of a man who's full of dinner and now wants to be left in peace.

"Need to be ready ta ride first thing," Chris informs him. "Heard Ludo Palmer's hangin' around in Banner and Judge Travis's lookin' to us ta bring 'em in."

"Only Ludo?" Buck asks after a large swallow.

"You know what they're like... who knows what we'll fuckin' find when we get there."

Ezra is standing at the bar in his shirtsleeves. He doesn't approach the table and Chris figures it's because he and Nathan are not friends at the moment.

"All quiet?" Chris asks him, referring to his stint on guard duty.

"Perfectly."

"Good, well I need ya to do it again tomorrow. You and Nathan between you. I'm takin' the others."

Ezra doesn't look any more pleased than Vin. "You want me to stay heah?"

"Didn't I just say so?"

"Is that s-s-s..." He stops, grits his teeth. "Is that strictly necessary?"

Although an unpleasant flutter catches Chris under the ribs he won't react to it. He knows that's the last thing Ezra needs. "Yes it damn well is."

Ezra attempts to look nonchalant. He turns back to the bar, slouching.

"Gonna be laid up fer long?" Buck asks Vin in sympathy.

"Ain't lookin' good."

"It'll be fine." Nathan is soothing. Chris notices that he slings Ezra's back a regretful look before plumping down in a chair. "Long as you don't run around."

They sit quiet for a while. Chris goes to stand by Ezra at the bar but they don't converse. Giving one long glance into the mirror behind the bottles he feels quite encouraged. Ezra doesn't look too bad. Things go up and down with his damn battered brain so fast it's enough to make your stomach queasy, but even a hard ride out into tough country a week ago hasn't laid him low. The sun and wind on the journey back tanned up his face, have given him a deceptively healthy glow. His eyes are bright enough, although that could be whisky. And he seems poised in that slightly worrying Standish way that possibly means he's contemplating something troublesome. Troublesome is better than unconscious though.

Best of all he hasn't taken a tumble for a good while, although Chris knows they're always waiting for the next one. If it wasn't for the vagueness that creeps over Ezra sometimes, the odd quirks in his speech, Chris might almost start to believe things are improving.

It's grown dark outside.

"I can't jus' sit around doin' nothin'," Vin suddenly says. "Gotta horse to tend to."

Nathan makes a hissing sound at him. "Reckon someone can manage that. Now, you gonna insist on climbing up inta that wagon of yours and lyin' in a draught all night? Or you gonna be sensible and come take a good draught of somethin' to help ya sleep upstairs?"

Chris turns around from the bar, looking faintly amused.

"Well I ain't walkin' him all the way out there, so I reckon that's the answer."

"Ah hell," Vin says and kicks the table leg with his other foot.

Chris, Buck, Josiah and JD leave for Banner in the morning.

"Think they'll bring us back a Palmer?" Vin wonders from his spot outside the jail. He has a sluggish look about him suggesting neither a sleeping draught nor his incapacity have given him good night's rest. The bad knee rests on a second chair. From time to time he jiggles his good one as if to make sure it's still in working order.

"Long as they come back in one piece," Nathan replies at once. "Cuz even if the sheriff in Banner only saw Ludo, don't mean Ludo is all there is."

When it comes to the Palmers they're likely to be pessimistic.

"Still don't know why I had to stay behind," Ezra grumbles. He's sitting at the other side of the jailhouse door from Vin with a wooden bowl between his feet, flicking scraps of nutshell across the boardwalk. Every so often when he picks up a nut and cracks it, Vin leans right over and snags the kernel out of his hand, leaves him with nothing but pieces of husk. So far Ezra is being patient about the thefts, hasn't quite registered what's happening or worked up the energy to retaliate.

"Maybe because at two o'clock this mornin' you were outside Buck's with ya head between ya knees? Perhaps Chris had the crazy idea you didn't feel so good?" Nathan hasn't decided yet whether the incident was significant.

Vin eyes another nut but bides his time.

"I rose with the lark," Ezra says snappily. "I ate breakfast. I would have been at the livery all ready to go if he'd wanted. Enlighten me as to why Mr. Larabee thought that meant I didn't feel so good?" It is true that he looks fresh and flawlessly turned-out. Compared to Vin, at any rate.

"Hell I don't know." Nathan can't be doing with Ezra's pretence that all is normal with him.

"Look on the bright side," Vin suggests. "He knows I'm crocked and Nathan's busy. Mebbe he thinks you're town's best bet."

Ezra cracks another nut loudly. "In that case, what do you wager some outlaw gang picks today to rob the bank?"

They all look at one another and grin.

Vin picks that moment to reach out a hand but this time Ezra is ready. He tosses the kernel into the air like a coin, ducks to catch it in his mouth. Vin overbalances with a crash and Ezra nearly chokes but even Nathan laughs so loud Mary Travis comes out of the Clarion to see what's going on.

Sometimes it's unfortunately true that a cloud lifts when Chris rides out of town.

Ludo Palmer's been picked up by the sheriff in Banner by the time the group from Four Corners arrives.

"All yours," the sheriff says, not bothering to disguise the relief in his voice.

The three of them stand and regard the prisoner from the other side of the jailhouse. Ludo, a Palmer from the top of his shaggy yellow hair down to his big, booted feet, is annoyingly chipper. Even with the prospect that he might be tried alone for the sins of his entire family.

"You go on and take me back," he says when Chris draws nearer. "I'm not complainin'. Cos you know what'll come down on your town if you do."

"I don't think we've had the pleasure," Buck says, stomping over and sticking his face close.

"You'll find out," Ludo states doggedly. "Can set up some chicken-shit trial if ya like but it's you's gonna pay for murderin' my brother."

"That crooked lawyer still on Uncle Burt's payroll?" Chris asks. He feels like he needs as much information as possible and that forewarned is forearmed. They don't know why Ludo was sent on ahead, if he's even allied with the others at all right now. The Palmers have a habit of going their separate ways for months at a time, only reuniting when there's the prospect of violence or profit. Preferably both. The man's presence so close to Four Corners may be coincidental, or it may be the harbinger of one of Burton Palmer's "plans".

Ludo doesn't answer him directly but his self-satisfied expression tells Chris much of what he needs to know.

"We'll be seein' you in the morning then," Buck says, turning away. Ludo looks a little less satisfied.

It's time to seek rest and sustenance.

Banner's a nice enough town. The food is edible and the beds comfortable. They find that Ludo's dressed and washed and cuffed next morning, ready to leave first thing after breakfast. The sheriff evidently knows enough to want the prisoner away as soon as possible, before he has to deal with more than he can handle. Chris sends a wire to Four Corners saying they should be back by tomorrow afternoon. One thing he's learned since he turned peacekeeper is that it pays to keep everyone on the same page. A speedy reply informs them Vin's on his feet again, although it's not clear if this has been agreed by all parties concerned. At any rate, the current crop of prisoners has been bailed and ridden away. Travis will be arriving in a week.

There's no trouble on the way home. Chris can hardly believe that. Ludo's cheerful enough that it suggests he's expecting liberation at any time. But no rescue party accosts them and Ludo grows less and less combative the nearer they draw to Larabee's town.

"They'll come," Ludo says in his best threatening tone when he's arrived at his destination and is sitting in the very cell that once held his younger brothers.

"Let 'em," JD responds with a bravado that Buck hopes won't be misplaced. He steers him from the jail on the heels of Larabee who, unsurprisingly, wants a drink. Right now.

Josiah jangles the keys thoughtfully before he hangs them up. He remembers the day Ring and Gabe Palmer were locked up in Four Corners' jail all too clearly... blood soaking Vin's shirt-cuffs, helplessness in Nathan's voice. The preacher had tried to shut all that out of his mind at the time, made it his job to prevent Buck throttling Ring with his bare hands. Now the preacher grins wolfishly at Ludo through the bars.

"We know they'll come," he says, "why do you think you're here?"

Judge Travis arrives with some fanfare. He's greeted off the stage by Mary and a handful of other town notables. After a short rest in the shade he strolls rather grandly across the street and into the jailhouse.

Ludo's confidence does seem rather punctured by the sight of Justice personified. He's probably the cleverest of the remaining three brothers, but that doesn't actually make him very clever. It doesn't occur to him for a while that his rantings about the infallibility of Silas Gawtrey and how his family will ride into town and kill everyone in sight might enhance the case against him.

"We will welcome Mr. Gawtrey with pleasure," Travis says. He's told Chris that two more witnesses to the post-stage robbery outside Eagle Bend have decided to come forward and testify. "There'll be more," he enlarges, "just so long as you and the boys can guarantee their safety while they're here."

"But we won't have ta speak?" Vin sounds worried.

"I don't know what Gawtrey's planning, but he knows the charges don't include what happened the day you arrested Ring and Gabe. I think Standish is safe, but Cochrane may call on any of you others. All I can do is limit it. And in any case, Cochrane's not interested in the assault."

"Cochrane?"

"Prosecuting lawyer. We're lucky to have him - he doesn't leave Denver very often."

Cochrane arrives three days after Travis. He is the most expensively-dressed man Four Corners has ever seen, possibly the most well-educated man any of them have ever heard speak, and he makes Ezra practically spit with jealousy.

"Looks like a damn undertaker," Buck comforts him. "And he couldn't carry off a frill ta save his life."

The fact that Mr. Cochrane is not interested in the assault, and treats Vin like he's less than human for asking about it, makes Chris dislike the man even more than he dislikes Silas Gawtrey if that's humanly possible.

"I don't know about this trial," Vin says with discontent. "Seems ta me those two're just gonna talk each other to death."

Ezra doesn't say anything about anything.

They think his gloom is to do with Cochrane's immaculate suit of clothes and general air of money, but actually he is beginning to develop a headache.

It's one of those ones that begins in the far distance, a barely-discernible pinprick behind one eye. One of those ones that will sit quiet but determined in the background for a few days before deciding to overwhelm him. One of those ones he has not yet learned to reveal in advance.

Any overt signs of weakness now fill Ezra with a furious panic. Somewhere, he fears, probably up there in Nathan's sickroom, sit the tools of Dr. Freiber's trade, just waiting inside their black leather box to be used against him in some excruciating and fatal piece of butchery. Any inclination he might have been developing to confide in Buck, say, or just agree with Chris from time to time that he feels like shit, rapidly disappeared the moment Nathan unpacked that crate.

The panic generally makes him head for cover, although he's not always quite sure how he gets there.

On this occasion, knowing enough to realize he needs to be lying down in the semi-dark, he's wandering in the general direction of his room when time shifts.

"You all right, sir?" a piping voice enquires and Ezra opens his eyes and finds himself slumped against a wall. The smell of coal and soap tells him he's pitched up somewhere near the bathhouse. He didn't think he was passing anywhere near the bathhouse and the feeling that he no longer knows what he's doing washes over him.

A child, one of the very few friends that Billy Travis finds to play with when he comes to town, is standing a little way away with his hands on his hips.

A polite child, is the first thing Ezra thinks. As he straightens up his main motivation is not to alarm. Since the bees are swarming and he's more or less blind in one eye all of a sudden, he can't guarantee he won't either fall over or begin babbling.

"Quite fine," he thinks he may have got out eventually.

The child disappears, or else Ezra does. He hears a tapping sound once or twice and figures he must be between the bathhouse and the telegraph office. When he next manages to lift his head from the shelter of his hands he's alone again, still propped against the wall. Dropping one hand to feel about him he discovers an upturned box which he guesses might be what he was aiming for in the very first instance.

It's slightly better sitting down. Ezra faces away from the street, shrunk into the shadowy protection of the wall, feeling a knot of splinters against his head. It's damp on the box and underfoot, the ground soft. His plan is to wait until the shadows have deepened before he makes another attempt to get back to his room unseen. He can hear each breath he takes, feel each crashing thump of his heart in his ears. The bees will not retreat. Ezra is grimly determined he won't get up, won't risk a descent into darkness. That void is one he's terrified he won't escape.

"Ah for Pete's sake... bin lookin' for you all... damn it, Ezra."

The voice is disembodied at first, comes at him as if from underwater, and then Ezra feels an unexpected warmth on both knees. He wonders if he hadn't perhaps dozed off because it's very cool now and his one good eye focuses on Buck crouched before him, half hidden in the gloom of early evening.

"We were havin' a parley," Buck tells him. "Looked for ya just about ev..."

The sound fades out. There are some moments of buzzing while Buck's mouth continues to move and then his low-pitched voice drifts in once more.

"... all kinds rollin' into town."

There's silence and then Wilmington makes a disgruntled shushing noise. "I just don't get it. Why won't you ever tell us things are headin' down the crap-chute?"

A large hand molds around the side of Ezra's head, rubs absently. At first they'd never dare touch him but now Ezra can tell who's who even with his eyes shut.

"Ez," Buck says after what seems like another long pause. "Let me know when you c'n stand and I'll get you outa here." There's still one hand on his knee and one on his skull. "I ain't gonna go fer Nathan though I reckon I oughta." Another pause during which Ezra supposes he probably should have said something, if only he could get a grip on the conversation and his place in it. "Shit, you just don't know what the hell, do you?"

Buck could be right, but Ezra thinks he knows one thing at least.

He knows he will find the strength to run like hell if Mr. Jackson _is _summoned.

Because, for sure, whatever Nathan says, however much he assures them all he has no intention of doing what Ezra has expressly asked him not to, there will be a tipping point. When it's reached, Ezra is pretty sure that the healer will act as his instincts and desires tell him. And since that tipping point will almost certainly involve his being grievously incapacitated in some way he can't yet imagine, Ezra knows he needs a champion. Sooner rather than later. Someone prepared to fight his corner when he can no longer do it himself.

Frustratingly, within a group comprised of part-time heroes, Ezra is downright confused as to who would be a natural choice.

Whenever he's put his mind to it, he comes to the conclusion that the two most likely to listen to his arguments are Buck and JD, who shamelessly enjoy being rebellious once in a while. Only... Buck and JD are able to see nothing but desire for him to be miraculously cured. Their faith in that eventuality is touching, not to mention damnably exasperating.

And, although he would sorely like his advice on the whole matter of what might await him on the other side, as well as half a dozen other things of a more or less provocative nature, Ezra wouldn't dare approach Josiah, because Josiah is Nathan's good friend. The preacher evidently thinks Ezra wrong-headed about most things anyhow.

Vin, then? Because, right from the day Ezra apparently strolled solo through a graveyard to apprehend Ring and Gabe Palmer, airily confident that back-up was only seconds away, Vin's always been the most likely to take his part.

Except... damnit. Ezra thinks far too highly of Vin Tanner to burden him with such a role.

And certainly not Chris. Their leader may well feel obliged to go with the majority opinion when everyone has laid their cards on the table, or risk schism. Ezra has a seldom-expressed respect for the position Chris unwillingly occupies, wouldn't want to make it harder than he suspects it already is.

All things considered, it constitutes a distressingly unfair dilemma he'd hate himself for inflicting upon any of them. More than that, it would be selfish and disloyal, ingrained traits he has worked with varying degrees of success to expunge from his character. Yes, indeed. Damn selfish and disloyal. Especially when he's so dumbstruck half the time at the lengths they will all go to in order to keep him among them.

Perhaps it's wholly appropriate, then, that in the end it will only be him, Ezra P. Standish, dressed to perfection and flailing against the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Vin limps at dangerous speed from his wagon to the saloon when he hears that Ezra's taken a dive.

The intelligence comes to him more like a whisper, a series of suppositions in his own mind, than a verbatim report. There's movement outside the saloon that doesn't look quite right to him, doesn't look normal. Then a flash of figures unclear yet familiar, hastening through town.

Vin is uncomfortably aware that, what with his damn leg, and now maybe his fellow peacekeeper doing a public swoon, town won't be feeling too confident in their guardians on the eve of Ludo Palmer's trial.

JD is standing outside the batwings like a doorman when he arrives.

"We're all here," the kid says.

On the one hand Vin thinks it's a godsend that the seven of them have this instinct to draw together in moments of crisis. On the other, he can see why folk mutter that they think they're a damn law unto themselves. JD looks relieved to see him. His guns are all polished up ready for what might come.

Vin doesn't even need to ask.

"Buck found him hidin' out, was just walkin' him back... " JD throws up his hands expressively in order to complete the story.

Pushing his way inside Vin makes out that Ezra's sitting. His clothes, from what he can see, appear dusty, probably from a fall. Nathan's perched right by him on a table, holding what looks like a poultice to the back of his neck, one hand on his shoulder. Both Josiah and Buck are resting their backsides on another table. Any other occupants of the saloon have moved away and are continuing their business in low tones, trying to look like they're not watching.

Vin weaves a way round everybody, pushes into the bar next to Chris who hands him a shot.

"How we doin'?"

Vin really does mean that in a collective sense, although he wants specifics, too.

Chris doesn't take his eyes off Nathan. "Went down on the first step. Out for no more'n a minute. Bin scrambled ever since."

"Least he ain't told Nathan to leave him the hell alone," Vin observes, then touches his top lip into the whisky. The heat and bite are welcome and he tips the whole shot down in one, hoping it'll reach his knee about the same time as his stomach.

"Figure he's bin tryin' and it just ain't comin' out right."

Vin frowns at that. Like all of them, he truly hates to hear Ezra trying to be articulate and failing.

"Damn. Just hope ta hell Judge Travis sticks to his word then, and don't call on him ta say nothin'."

Chris shakes his head. "It would show that fuckin' lawyer what they did," he growls.

Vin understands the sentiment but thinks they might be beyond it now. "He'd fuckin' hate it. And he's worse now than he was then."

Larabee sets his glass down on the bar-top. "Damn," he says, "And I thought he was better."

They've all had several drinks, and JD has been for a sweep around town to show that there's nothing more serious for folk to worry about than they were worrying about first thing this morning, by the time Nathan says,

"Right, you gonna let me... you gonna let _someone_ get you up those stairs now?"

Vin's expecting it to be the shaky, vague Ezra who drags himself to his feet. Resentful at having an audience but too tuckered out by misery and confusion to bother expressing it. For a while he'd sat there there fingering one temple, huffing from time to time, beginning sentences that petered out in disarray, not looking up enough to meet anyone's eyes. Over the last ten minutes he's been more or less quiet. Nathan's robust tone indicates he thinks that the worst is over.

Disengaging himself from the healer's cautious hold, Ezra doesn't stand yet but he appears to be sitting strong. He looks the worse for wear, like someone caught out in a storm, but Vin feels a heady relief that he doesn't seem in the least bit vague.

"I'm capable," Ezra says, head held high.

Vin can't help grinning at him.

Chris folds his arms. Vin knows he's relieved to hear real words coming out of Ezra's mouth again but he's not sure it's such a good idea for Larabee to be looking so challenging.

"You gonna make it through the next few days, Ezra?"

"Please continue to rely on me as you always have."

"Looks to me like it might be an idea if you let Nathan..."

Ezra spins in the chair to face him. There's a wash of hot color over the pallid complexion all of a sudden. "Oh no no." He shakes his head hard enough to make Vin cringe at what might be dislodged. "You all got your way before. I endured that damn filthy railroad and submitted to the vilest tortures Mr. Jackson's grand inquisitor could devise. I will not be bullied any further, no suh. I would rather expire right here at this table than... than..."

Vin feels almost exhilarated by the smooth assurance of Ezra's speech all of a sudden.

"All right, Ezra, calm down."

"No, Mr. Larabee, _you_ calm down!" Ezra's on his feet now. He's fixing to defend himself and they know how well he can do that. Even now there's a fine tremor in his right shoulder. The Derringer can be tripped in a blink.

Chris raises his hands, takes a mollifying step backward down the bar. He is not a man to mis-read signs.

"We have terminated this discussion," Ezra says to him quietly. "Is that cleah?"

Chris nods.

When Ezra's boots have finished clomping up the stairs with pointed dignity, Buck lets out a long whistle.

"Hell," Vin says, not able to resist a sharp elbow in Larabee's ribs.

"Reckon rilin' him up might be the way ta go?"

To Ezra's surprise, it's Josiah who comes to find him the day before the trial. Who discovers him disconsolately standing guard at the easternmost end of town, hatless and alone on the ramparts. It's actually the remains of a building, the half walls uneven and providing both cover and a place to sit. Ezra's set his back against the highest section of the ruins, has one heel on the brick, the butt of his rifle pressed into the stony ground. He's been on his mettle the last few days and nobody has broached anything but the most guarded of pleasantries with him since he walked out on them in the saloon.

"You're looking better," Josiah says as he approaches.

"Still heah," Ezra agrees without looking at him. He hates guard duty out in the open at the best of times, finds it hard to concentrate, and he's suspicious that Josiah has been sent to scold him for some perceived dereliction.

"I could take over if you like."

Ezra might hate these mundane hours of vigilance over the unchanging scenery, but he doesn't actually feel he is quite ready for the scrap-heap yet. He drops his heel to the ground, settles his gun-belt more comfortably around his hips, responds to the offer with no grace and little humor.

"You prepared the speech for my damn funeral?"

"I want you to live, son," Josiah tells him gravely after a period of reflection. "Want you to ride right on past this break in the trail. Have a life free from pain and uncertainty." Ezra doesn't react until he feels Josiah move right up close. "But," the preacher carries on, "it's starting to look sometimes like the only way to have that might be... to think about Nathan's way." He lays a quiet palm against the back of Ezra's shoulder and Ezra can feel him staring long and hard at his profile. "But we can see you don't want it."

Ezra is stunned to think that they have been discussing the matter. Stunned, appalled and more than a little furious. He's half afraid to speak, thinks he may make a fool of himself by stuttering nonsense. To his surprise, when he begins, his voice is full of fire.

"Trust me," he says, "I would rather breathe my last right this minute."

"Are we just to watch you fade before our eyes?"

Ezra is taken aback by the idea that this is what's happening. He doesn't often think about the situation from the others' point of view.

It occurs to him then that if he's going to seek the assurance he wants, perhaps he'd better damn well do it now. The trial will take everyone's attention and who knows what will happen next. Josiah is a wise and intelligent man and Ezra suddenly realizes he would do a lot worse than choose him as his second. Relief and apprehension flood him at the decision, sequential waves of hot and cold that steal all the strength from his limbs. He's unable to prevent the stumbles caused by such a rush of emotions.

"If I haven't f-found some other way out, Mr. Sanchez... there m-may come a time..." As he speaks his throat practically closes up in sheer dread. But hell, he's committed now and there's no turning back.

Josiah is rubbing one knuckle back and forth across his chin. He looks as if he wants to turn tail.

"A time," Ezra repeats as smoothly as he can, "when I am unable to articulate my wishes. I just want there to be no doubt." He scrunches his eyes towards the bright horizon, fighting against the tumbril beating ominously in his head. "I need s-someone on my side."

"We're all on your side, Ezra."

Josiah moves the hand down to an elbow, begins to tug his sleeve.

"I beg to differ." Ezra realizes he's sitting down on a sharp edge of wall and is not sure he can remain suitably on his dignity. He plants his feet firmly, sweeps one hand through his hair as if to brush away something he can't touch. "R-really, Josiah. I think not."

Josiah has let go his sleeve and moves back a few paces. Sighing audibly he eases down on the broken chimney breast opposite and one boot scrapes in the loose stones.

"What do you want?" he asks in a reluctant rumble.

Ezra gives him a square look, which is not something he manages with anybody very often. Not when he's being himself, at any rate.

"There will come a day," he begins and then stops again. Josiah clearly feels uncomfortable but he waves him on. The preacher seems to have committed himself as well. Ezra inhales. "Well, when that day co-comes... I need someone... I would like _you_ to make it plain to our good and noble friends that I do not wish to be c-cut open by Mr. Jackson. Much as I admire him. When I cannot say it anymore, when they believe they are deciding for the best, to s-save mah life perhaps. Promise me, Josiah. I need to know someone will try and stop them."

"But, Ezra..." Josiah says, distressed now.

"Damn it, Mr. Sanchez!" Ezra draws himself up where he sits. "Since that memorable day you refused my request for spiritual guidance, have I _evah_ asked any favor from you, any dispensation? Am I to be turned away again?"

"If I did the wrong thing then," Josiah says, clearly not happy at all to have that incident inserted into the conversation, "I may do the wrong thing again."

"Ah, but if you promise me now, I'll know you won't. I'll know that I c-can trust you."

That last phrase alone is enough to upset the preacher. Ezra is guiltily aware how often he has made it plain he doesn't entirely trust any of them, not outside the rigors of their occupation anyhow.

Josiah continues to mumble unhappily. "Hell, Ezra, it's not what the Lord would expect from me. Your life is precious. As sacred as any. He wouldn't appreciate such a life being forfeit."

A weight settles over Ezra. He identifies it as despair and can't hold Josiah's eyes anymore. It's all too inevitable, too damn disappointing.

Of course Josiah wouldn't agree. Nor would any of them.

Ezra can't say anymore, just pushes himself up from the wall, walks away and leaves his post.

There's a surfeit of extra people in town which Chris doesn't appreciate.

He hated the whole brouhaha that attended the first trial in Ridge City. Hated how people were prepared to travel for miles just to revel in others' misfortune. His sensible side tells him he should be pleased that at last something is happening in this whole mess. It tells him the portents are good for a satisfactory result, that at least one of the damn roaches in the swarm will be dealt with before long. His short-tempered side doesn't care for the mutterings of some of the population. Like it's all _his _fault, somehow, that their town's being overrun with visitors, not all of whom are well-behaved.

"Ain't even got a damn courthouse," he mutters. "Where in hell do these knuckleheads think they're actually gonna sit?"

"Saloon?" Vin suggests.

"What the hell they all troopin' inta town for? Couldn't they jus' sit at home and wait fer someone to tell 'em what happened?"

"Lotta folk took Bill Dunnett's loss to heart."

Vin, of course, always tends to see into the core of things, using some unerring inner spyglass. It's something Chris can't always do, especially not when he's hobbled by irritation and worry.

"Don' see why they can't sit at home and take it ta heart."

"People are strange," Vin admits. He doesn't sound too upset by the notion.

"We could make some money heah," Ezra speculates out loud on the evening before the trial is due to begin.

They're all arranged around a coffee pot on the boardwalk outside the jail. He's not the only one who's thought the same way, of course. The hotel manager is practically salivating at the thought of all the extra custom, although his wife looks flustered. A bunch of people who are normally miserable and inhospitable have somehow transformed into the welcoming owners of boarding houses. There's been enough extra bodies in town in advance of proceedings that it sparked a minor crisis at the Mercantile and JD ended up riding to Eagle Bend for emergency coffee.

"Let 'em all get on with it." That's Nathan's advice to his compatriots. "We're doin' our job and they can just... get the hell on with gawking and gossiping."

Ezra just didn't look sure he could pass over the opportunities that the influx of new people seemed to represent. He's not quite been himself for some days, though, so when Chris tells him to be a damn peacekeeper for a change and not a damn money-grubbing gambler, he doesn't seem to have it in him to argue.

"There's ladies," Buck says about every five minutes.

JD laughs at him. "Chris says you hafta conserve ya energies, Buck. Needs you awake tonight. Reckons them Palmers would love to stage a raid come dark."

They drift away from the coffee-pot after a while, then meet at the Clarion after supper - Travis, Cochrane and Gawtrey too.

The Judge and two lawyers sit either side of Mary's desk looking important while Mary makes more coffee. Larabee and his men drape themselves around the room, patently ill at ease.

"Ten o'clock start," Travis says. "Need one of you on the door to keep the prisoner in and the idiots out."

"Is that really necessary?" Gawtrey asks, rolling his eyes.

Vin's been glaring at him since he came in. Chris knows Tanner's never forgotten his half hour on the witness stand in Ridge City, how the memory can still make his stomach turn right over just thinking of it.

"Security is vital," Travis responds. Cochrane nods in agreement.

"We know what to do," Chris says. He doesn't like being given a list of orders and he's pissed enough to refuse the coffee Mary offers him. This ain't a damn social circle. He wants a proper drink, and he wants there to be space enough in the damn saloon to enjoy it.

The lawyers drink their coffee and Travis sits between them looking like he just wants this thing over and done with. Once all the details are out of the way, Chris sends Josiah and Buck out to the two ends of town, just in case.

It's all peaceful as night falls.

The morning of the trial dawns bright and clear. Josiah strolls from one end of town to the other because he has so many hard thoughts on his mind he's unable to sit still.

None of them will be present at the proceedings in the Grain Exchange unless summoned, except Vin. Tanner's been designated door duty because of his knee and he's tight-lipped as a result although JD keeps repeating that he doesn't have a leg to stand on, a joke which was originally Buck's. Vin doesn't find it even a little funny, no matter who's telling it. Judge Travis is determined that the seven will provide a veritable wall of protection around Four Corners. It's not going to be easy - looks like folk are going to be coming and going all day and they don't aim to scare anyone who doesn't deserve to be scared.

Josiah has done some reading. He's sat and contemplated the open sky. He's hammered loose nails back into floorboards. Nothing has brought him much relief or enlightenment but he realizes he has to make his decision quickly and start concentrating on the very real possibility that armed men will be descending on the town in the next who knew how many hours.

He is unsurprised to find Ezra sitting in the saloon, dressed smart and formally, coffee cup on hand. Half of his pasteboard deck is fanned out and untouched before him on the table. Josiah doesn't sit down with him, just stands at the batwings looking towards the animated groups of people talking in the street.

"Ezra," he says eventually, half turning his head.

"Mistah Sanchez?" Ezra's voice is without life.

"I have been thinking."

"Hmmm?" There's not much interest there and Josiah hears the swish of Ezra's hand swooping down on the cards, rolling them upright, then the soft fall of the deck against the baize.

"About what you asked."

Ezra's hand sweeps again and there is a the sharp tap of the gathered deck on the table. He still says nothing.

"I will take your part," Josiah says quietly. He turns right around, wishes Ezra would look at him. "On one condition."

Ezra lifts his head, eyes narrowed, cards quiet.

"I promise to do as you ask. Just so long... so long as you promise _me_ that you won't give up." Josiah seeks out acknowledgement of his words but can't find it. "Not until the last, Ezra."

_The last._

Josiah knows they both understand what he means by that. There has been a distant look in the striking, light-colored eyes for some time now. Standish is not the first person on whom Josiah has sniffed the intention to bring about their own demise. He can sense it now, can feel that the plan is certainly already in place. The horror of it makes him brisk.

"Now," he says, gruff, leaning forward. "You promise me that and I promise to stand against all our brothers for you if it comes to it... whatever the consequence."

Like all of them, Josiah has imagined many scenarios which could bring about the end of their association, some more mundane than others. But never an impasse such as this. The whole thing reeks of betrayal and he's not sure he can bear to be a part of it.

Ezra is silent a long while, and then he fingers his cards once more, moves one up and out of the deck, turns it over with a thumb and lets it slide back, unseen.

"Very well," he says, but Josiah won't accept that, not from Ezra. He shakes his head gravely.

"Say it."

The second, longer silence tells Josiah eloquently how much Ezra does not want anything to do with such a vow. He hopes the depth of it means any falsehood now uttered will, at least, not come easily.

"I promise," Ezra says eventually. It is impossible to gauge his sincerity. Josiah suspects at this point that the more the man's heart feels the less heartfelt he will sound.

Nothing else is necessary to seal the pact. Josiah doesn't want to dwell on the fact that it has even been made, that he is complicit in such a covenant. He wants, instead, to drag Ezra back to the here and now, find something that will engage or irritate him enough to spark some life back into those eyes.

"We have a big day ahead of us," is what he says.

"Indeed."

Ezra drains his cup of coffee, replaces the deck in his vest pocket. He fingers his forearm, testing the lie of the rig, pushes back the chair and rises to standing. It's an easy, steady, confident move.

"So walk with me," Josiah says, pushing at the batwing. Ezra follows him through, hisses at the sunlight and arranges his hat carefully, brim slightly forward, shading his eyes. He stands on the top step, poised. Or frozen.

"Ezra?" Josiah can't help asking in doubt. The one word means many things, is the front for a whole raft of hopeless questions even now twisting a wicked way around Josiah's heart.

"Courage, Mr. Sanchez." Ezra smiles, serene enough to chill. "For there is no more to be done right now."

-end-


End file.
